After the Mandatory testing law took effect, several rebel factions developed in response. They accumulated a strong following, mostly in the southwestern United States. The rebels staged a small revolt, but The Agency squashed it before it had gone too far. In the end, the Coalition of Rebel States, California, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico and Texas, seceded from the rest of the country and elected their own president. Over the years, The Coalition had served as a safe haven for citizens who championed a country where talents were suppressed, or hidden; where being Talented was something that brought shame. One of the primary objectives of TOXIC was to prevent The Coalition from gaining any more momentum. In fact, Mac’s main goal as Director was to defeat The Coalition’s leaders and reunite the country.

I was ten years old when the rebels killed my parents. My family moved around a lot when I was a child, because of my father’s job as a government scientist. At the time of the attack, we were visiting the States so that my father could attend an annual meeting with members of TOXIC. My family always stayed in the same hotel, about twenty minutes away from McDonough School’s campus.

The men in black came in the dead of night. My father and his bodyguard tried to fight them off, but they were incredibly outnumbered. My mother hid me in a closet and went to my father’s aid, but she was no more a fighter than he was. I watched through the slats in the closet door, terrified as the men in black mercilessly killed my parents. I stuffed my small fist in my mouth and bit down until I tasted blood, willing myself not to scream. I wanted to close my eyes against the carnage. Instead, I sat frozen with my eyes open so wide that they began to water, producing tears even before my brain could process what was going on.

My parents’ deaths had been quick. One cold metal bullet to the side of my father’s head was all it took to steal the life of the man whose lap I curled up in every night before bed; the man who brought me cold milk and warm cinnamon sugar cookies when I had nightmares; the man whose warm dark brown eyes and toothy smile lit up every time my mother walked in the room.

My poor mother never stood a chance. She was grabbed from behind before she could even reach my father. A gaping wound appeared across her throat with one flick of her attacker’s wrist. The man in black tossed her carelessly next to my father’s crumpled form, as if she were trash.

I felt murderous. The feelings overwhelmed me, stirring in my stomach and rising like bile in my throat. Then, the horrible, high-pitched shrieking started. It filled my ears, suffocating all of the coherent thoughts in my brain.

I am still not sure if it was the cold, calculated murder of my father, or the careless disposal of my mother—probably both—but I felt something inside of me snap. One minute I was hiding in the closet with the silk of my mother’s long dresses pulled tight around my face to block out the brutal scene in the bedroom. The next, I was sitting in the outer room of our hotel suite, surrounded by broken furniture, shattered glass, and the bodies of the men in black. They were all dead.

The heavy black clouds in the night sky matched the darkness I felt building inside me. The rain began to fall through the broken windows in fat drops. They came down slowly at first, but it wasn’t long before the drops blended together, becoming streams of water falling from the sky. The rainwater was cold, a sharp contrast to the hot tears pouring from my eyes.

I don’t know how long I sat there in the rain before a blond man rushed through the open door to the hotel room. I recognized him from meetings with my father, but I couldn’t remember his name. He was a large man with broad shoulders, hair that was cut short, and a tanned, weathered face.

The blond man carried a large gun slung over one shoulder, and several smaller ones tucked at his waist. An entire team of men clamored through the doorway after him. He held up one of his hands, indicating for the men to stay back. He approached me slowly, hesitantly. As he got closer, he tentatively extended one of his large, gloved hands toward me. I had seen people approach wounded animals the same way.

“Natalia?” he asked in a soft voice. Unable to find the energy to nod my head, I just stared blankly.

“Natalia,” he repeated, “my name is Danbury McDonough. Do you remember me? I’m friends with your daddy.” I rewarded him with another of my blank stares.

“Natalia, are you hurt?” He took my silence as an indication that I was not.

He knelt next to me and gently untangled my fingers from the folds of my dress. Without thinking, I threw my arms around his neck. He patted me awkwardly on the back, unsure how to react. I dug my small fingers into his shoulders, scared to let go. He carefully picked me up. I started shaking, actually feeling the cold for the first time.

“You’re freezing,” he commented, hugging me.

He carried me out the door. The men spoke in low voices to one another.

“How many are dead?” one man whispered to the shorter man standing next to him.

“There have to be at least ten right there,” another proffered.

“Did she do that?” the shorter man asked in disbelief.

“Impossible, she’s a child,” a heavily accented voice interjected.

“Does she even have a weapon?”

I could feel Mac’s body tense in response to the mutterings of the men. He hurried us through the corridor and down the stairs to a waiting car in the parking lot.

He placed me in the backseat of the waiting vehicle. I curled into a ball as he covered me with a blanket. My body and mind were numb, impervious to the rain and cold. He tucked the red and black fabric under my chin. I was vaguely aware that the material was itchy against my skin, but I didn’t move it away.

Stolen story; please report.

I could hear the soft ping of the raindrops hitting the metal roof of the car, keeping perfect time with the tears leaking on to the soft leather seat and pooling underneath my cheek. I tried to concentrate on the noise instead of the mental slideshow of my parents’ deaths. I was convinced that the images, now seared into my consciousness, would never fade. The rage I’d felt in the closet was now gone, leaving me hollow and tired, so tired. I closed my swollen eyes and willed my mind blank.

I spent one month at the medical facility located on the grounds of the McDonough School. Mac came to visit me every day. He kept up a constant, one-sided conversation, never appearing bothered by my lack of response. Every day the medics would draw my blood, hook me up to machines, and talk about my vital signs. Sometimes they talked to me and sometimes they simply talked around me.

One morning, Mac came into my room and instead of sitting in his usual chair in the corner, he crouched down next to the side of my bed. He made a point to lock his steely-gray eyes with mine.

“Natalia, I need to talk to you,” he said, in the most serious tone he’d ever used with me, “and I need you to listen very carefully. The medics here say you are physically healthy and that you can be released.”

When I did not comment, Mac plunged forward with what, I assumed, was a carefully prepared speech. “You have two choices. I found an uncle—your father’s brother, I think—in Italy, who is willing to let you live with him and his family.” He hesitated before giving me my second option, but I didn’t need to hear him say it; I read the one word out of his mind. Before he could open his mouth, I said my first word since that fateful night: “Revenge.”

During one of his daily visits, Mac had explained to me TOXIC’s theory of what happened the night my parents were murdered. They believed that the President of The Coalition, Ian Crane, had ordered the deaths of my parents in retaliation for my father’s scientific contributions to the study of Talents and what caused our abilities. Mac said our family wasn’t the only one The Coalition had targeted, but it was the first time they had left a survivor.

That very day, I left medical and went to live with Danbury “Mac” McDonough, his wife Gretchen, and their twelve-year-old son. I had no personal items, so I followed Mac, empty-handed, up the long stone path to a sprawling ranch-style house. Before we reached the bright red front door, it opened and inside stood a tall woman with pretty blond hair and big blue eyes. Standing next to her was a boy. At twelve, the son was already as tall as his mother. He had shaggy, blond hair and eyes like his mother. He smiled at me, and for the first time since my parents’ death, I smiled back.

“Natalia, I would like you to meet my wife, Gretchen, and my son, Donavon,” Mac said to me as he gestured to each in turn.

“Natalia,” Gretchen greeted me warmly. “I had some clothes made for you, sweetheart. I hope you will like them.”

I knew I should say thank you, but I couldn’t find my voice, so I simply nodded.

“Donavon, why don’t you show Natalia to her new room and let her get settled? I am sure she needs to rest,” Gretchen said to her son, still smiling down at me.

“’OK, follow me,” Donovan instructed.

I looked up at Mac. He nodded encouragingly, so I followed Donavon. He didn’t speak as we wound through the maze that was their house. Finally, we reached a set of double doors in the very back of the house. Donavon opened the doors and led me into a small living area with two overstuffed red couches and a small dark wooden table.

“This is your sitting room,” he explained. “Through that door over there is your bedroom and bathroom. My mom hung clothes in the closet, and there are some books on the desk. My dad said you liked reading old books.”

“Thank you,” I croaked in a voice that was hoarse from non-use.

“You need anything else?” he asked. I shook my head, and he turned to leave. He hesitated at the door. “Is it true you can manipulate people’s minds?” he asked, so fast that I nearly misunderstood him.

“Who told you that?” I demanded.

“I heard my dad and one of his Hunters talking,” he replied, sheepishly. “Dad says you can perform mind manipulation.” I just stared, not sure how to react. My parents taught me never to talk about my unique abilities.

“So, is it true?” Donavon pressed.

After a long moment, I walked towards him. His eyes widened, but he didn’t flinch as I reached out and took his hand. I fixed his wide eyes with my own.

“Yes, it’s true,” I answered mentally.

His eyes grew even wider, but he didn’t release my hand.

“Whoa, that’s so cool,” his mental voice replied. “Can you make anybody hear what you are thinking?”

“If I want them to, I can make people hear or see anything.”

Donavon smiled. “That’s so cool,” he repeated.

“You’re… not scared of me?” I tentatively asked.

“I don’t know how anyone could be scared of you.”

I looked up into his shining blue eyes and smiled. For the first time in my life, I knew that I had a friend.

The first couple of days with the McDonough family were strange. Mac and Gretchen continually tried to engage me in conversation, but I wasn’t ready to talk to them. Mac would come visit me in my sitting room and talk about my soon-to-be new life at school. I had heard my father talk about the school when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. I listened intently to every word Mac said, mentally filing every detail away for later.

While Mac’s sole concern was making sure that I understood my new role as a student at school, Gretchen’s priority was making sure that I never wore the same outfit twice. When I arrived, the closet was filled with elaborate dresses made of raw silk, soft animal hair sweaters in varying colors, and comfortable looking cotton pants. Every day more packages arrived with fabrics that Gretchen had ordered from New York City. She would send for one of the seamstresses from school, and the two of them would spend the day fussing over tailoring the new clothes and deciding what new outfits needed ordered.

Each day after lunch, Donavon would rescue me from his mother’s fawning. I seldom spoke when I was with Mac or Gretchen; with Donavon I rarely kept quiet. Donavon wanted to know all about the glamorous life I’d led, traveling around the world. He’d spent all of his life living at either the McDonough School or Elite Headquarters. I hated to tell him that I spent most of my life inside hotel rooms and rarely got to see anything cool. Likewise, I wanted to know everything about his life at school with friends. I had little interaction with kids my own age growing up, and even less interaction—none, actually—with Talented kids. In fact, before coming to live with the McDonough’s, I didn’t know that what I could do was considered a talent.

Donavon was what TOXIC called a Polymorph. He could change into just about any animal. He told me that his dad had been teaching him how to morph into other human forms, but he was not even close to achieving such a feat.

Some days, I would spend the afternoon watching Donavon show off; he would morph from one animal to another while I giggled and clapped for him. Other days, he would work with me on my abilities. We would hide out in the woods behind his parents’ house and see if I could reach his mind, widening the gap each day until we could communicate across the entire compound. Sometimes, we would simply wander down to the lake on the other side of the woods to play in the water.

Every night, alone in my room, I cried myself to sleep. I had succeeded in almost entirely blocking out the violence that had cost my parents their lives, but that didn’t mean I missed them any less. I loved having a real friend in Donavon, and Mac and Gretchen were going out of their way to make me feel like part of their family. But they would never be my actual family. I forced myself to repeat the name, over and over, of the man who I’d learned ordered the death of my family: Ian Crane. I promised myself that one day I would return the favor.